


hallow hills

by bfunsolvable



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment RPF
Genre: M/M, Spooky AU, there are literal and figurative ghosts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:36:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25250017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bfunsolvable/pseuds/bfunsolvable
Summary: — the year is 1989.one-hit wonder author ryan bergara is in desperate need of inspiration for his next novel. his search drives him to hallow hills, massachusetts, a town where everything is not quite what it seems.hopeful that these strange occurrences might just be the perfect plot, ryan starts investigating. he should be careful, though. digging into the town’s history and founding families may turn out to be more trouble than it’s worth…begrudgingly joining him is the elusive local bookstore owner, shane madej, whose past is entangled with lies, regrets, and ghosts of his own.(orig. posted on my tumblr @/bfunsolvable)
Relationships: Ryan Bergara & Shane Madej, Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	hallow hills

##  **hallow (** /ˈhalō/ **)  
**_verb. HONOR AS HOLY._

* * *

##  **MAY 18** **TH** **, 1989;**

Our story today starts with a car crash.

Of the non-lethal category, thankfully – about five miles outside of the nearest town. One might even venture to call it _fate_.

Ryan Bergara, on the other hand, would call it bad luck. 

For him, it’s a continuation of a string of unlucky incidents over the last three months; in that time period, he has submitted several drafts of a full-length manuscript, all of which his publisher has absolutely hated. 

The royalties on his _first_ (and only, mind you) novel have long since dried up, his New York City rent is eating through his savings faster than expected, and Ryan has approximately six weeks before he’s back to being a literal starving artist.

It’s pathetic, to say the least. 

So, after the last mildly disappointing phone call with his agent – which went a little like this:

_“I could barely make it through the first chapter, Bergara. What are you doing?”_

“Well, okay. Maybe you just need to give it another chance, you know -”

_“No! No more chances. That’s it. You have one month to submit something_ good _, or you’re done.”_

– Ryan decides to take off. 

That’s right. 

He loads up his rundown Corvette with one suitcase and the rest of his savings (though it’s not much) and leaves. The plan is to head to his cousin’s summer home up near Boston in search of much-needed solitude but, _really_ , Ryan just thinks that he needs to get away from the city for a little while. 

The trip is a little over four hours from his apartment in Harlem, and he originally plans on leaving around noon on Saturday morning. Then, it’s Friday night at nine and he’s sitting in his small one-bedroom, listening to the radio, when inspiration strikes; not of the writing sort, of course, because Ryan Bergara is simply not that lucky – no, instead, he gets the itch to leave in that moment. 

So, he does. 

The Manhattan traffic is less stressful at night, anyways, he tells himself; before long, he’s on the highway, music blaring, on his way to Boston. 

(As fate – or bad luck – would have it, Ryan Bergara never reaches the city.)

It’s about midnight, now. He’s in the middle of Massachusetts and hasn’t seen another car for almost an hour; the long stretch of highway bores him into an almost trance-like state, letting his mind wander without consequence. 

He breaks his gaze from the road only momentarily, to adjust the radio station which has dissolved into intermediary bursts of static. It takes less than ten seconds for music to fill the car again, but when he looks up again:

“Holy _shit!_ ” Ryan curses, before thinking to slam his foot on the brake. 

There’s a woman standing in the middle of the road. It’s dark, so he can’t make out any distinct features about her besides the red – god, is that _blood_? – dripping from her clothes. There’s not enough time for the car to slow down, he’s still going **sixty-five** , **fifty-five** , **fifty** miles per hour and she’s not fucking moving. 

“ _Fuck_!”

In a last-ditch, and panic stricken, attempt to avoid hitting the stranger, Ryan jerks his steering wheel to the side. His car barrels into the ditch, tires slamming against the soft ground below with enough force that he lurches forward until the seatbelt around him tightens into a chokehold. There’s really no time for Ryan to process what’s happening before there’s a sickening _smack_ and everything goes black. 

  


He doesn’t know how long he’s out – only that, when he wakes back up, he’s disoriented. Ryan can hardly see through the fog outside of his car, and the shattered windshield is absolutely no help at all.

All he knows is that his head _stings_. Tentatively, Ryan reaches a hand up to feel the side of his face, only to find warm, red blood spilling across the tips of his fingers when he pulls it away. The sight is nauseating. 

He fumbles for the door handle, barely pushing it open before vomiting what was left of his dinner onto the grass below. When he’s done, he coughs and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand in hopes of ridding himself of the taste. Then, he feels for the seatbelt release and climbs out of his car.

It’s ruined, is the first thing that he notices. The _smack_ that he vaguely recalls hearing? The trunk of a tree. The front end of his car is smashed to bits, the hood crumpled around the bark like cheap aluminum (which, ironically, is probably what his car is made out of), and _something_ – he’s not sure what – is smoking. 

He staggers back from the scene, unsure of where to go from here. Then, suddenly, the image of the woman flashes in his mind and Ryan remembers what caused the wreck in the first place. His thoughts spiral from there, and he wonders if he hit her and _why_ she was in the road to begin with and _why the fuck_ she was covered in blood (–that’s what it was, right?).

Ryan manages to climb from the ditch, which is more effort than anticipated, if only because of the fact that his minor head injury and the added dizziness make walking so much more complicated. He’s greeted with the sight of an empty highway; no woman, no blood, no _body_ , just the sight of tire marks on the pavement from where his car skidded off of the road. 

It doesn’t make sense. 

He could have _sworn_ that this is where she was standing. Right there, before the highway curves off between the trees. She was right _there_.

Ryan shakes his head in disbelief, not really understanding what was going on. Did she leave? There’s no way – not without checking to make sure that the car accident _she_ caused didn’t kill the driver (Ryan, in this case), right?

“What the fuck is going on?” He mumbles to himself, before bringing a hand up to rub at the nape of his neck. His headache is growing worse by the second and the brightness of his taillights in the distance feels like a hammer against his temple. 

Suddenly, there’s a chill, one that causes the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. It’s not a windy night, by any means. Summer is closing in, meaning that the cool nature of springtime has been replaced by night air that is hot, and even a little humid as he nears the coast, but there’s certainly no wind.

Instead, it’s the feeling one might get while walking the streets of some city late at night. A city that is too loud, too vast; a city that one person can easily get lost in. The feeling that someone — some _thing_ — is just around the corner, waiting. 

That feeling of being watched. 

Ryan turns on the heel of his foot quickly, unsure of what to expect; it’s hard to see, into the pitch-black night, but in the distance, there, he can faintly make out the silhouette of a person. 

He hesitantly steps forward to get a better look at the now approaching individual, just enough so that he’s standing on the gravel roadside and not in the middle of the highway — they don’t need a repeat of _his_ accident, do they?

“Hello? Who’s there?” Ryan calls out. 

Half expecting to be met with silence, as Ryan isn’t fully convinced that this isn’t a figment of his imagination due to serious head trauma, he’s surprised when a voice answers back to him.

“You okay, there?” 

The voice is decidedly masculine. It’s owner, who he can begin to make out now, stands a few inches taller than Ryan himself. “I live a couple minutes that way,” they continue, jerking their thumb behind them. “Heard the crash.”

Ryan makes his way closer, until the stranger’s face is dimly illuminated by the flickering streetlight. If this were any other setting, Ryan might even find him sort of cute — with long, floppy brown hair and a patterned button-up — but then, Ryan remembers the state of his _car_ and the state of the _wound_ on the side of his head and the train of thought is all but lost after that. 

Finally, he speaks: “There was,” Ryan cuts himself off, head shaking. The last thing he wants to do is get into the details of the disappearing woman. “I swerved to avoid hitting something,” he finishes.

“I see that worked well,” his newfound acquaintance says, almost teasingly, turning to look at Ryan’s ruined vehicle. “I’m Shane, by the way,” the person — _Shane_ — adds. 

Then: “Well, you’d better grab your bag before the entire car goes up in flames. You can stay on my couch; Eddie and the tow truck won’t be available until morning.”

“Oh, that’s not-” Ryan starts, ready to decline the invitation until he remembers that he’s in the middle of nowhere, with no way to contact Steven in Boston. “That would actually be great, thanks.” He says sheepishly, before holding out his hand, “I’m Ryan.”

“Nice to meet you, Ryan,” Shane returns the smile, “Welcome to Hallow Hills.”

  


The house that Shane leads Ryan to is quaint. And, as it turns out, much farther than a _couple of minutes_ away, as had been claimed. In the end, Ryan isn’t sure how long they walk for; the darkness envelops the two of them, and only the sound of the soles of their shoes against the gravel fills the air around them. 

By the time they reach Shane’s stretch of driveway, the stinging of Ryan’s cut has faded into a dull throb. He’s especially thankful, though, that as he presses the sensitive skin of his forehead, there’s a lack of fresh blood that seeps through his fingertips. 

The outside of the house itself is rundown, Ryan observes. The steps leading up to the front porch creak with every step that he takes, and he notices several spots where the blue paint of the siding is beginning to flake off as Shane unlocks the front door.

The air, however, shifts as they cross the threshold into Shane’s living room; there’s something about the place that seems decidedly familiar to Ryan, though he can’t quite place his finger on the feeling. And it’s been a long night, anyhow —

“Alright,” Shane breaks his attention, clasping his hands together in front of him. In the dim light emitting from the overhead ceiling fan, he appears much softer than what the darkness outside had given away. His features are round and kind, and Ryan finds it rather nice. 

“I can give you the ol’ grand tour once we take care of the head of yours,” Shane says, nodding in Ryan’s direction. “I’ll be right back,” he adds, before disappearing down the hallway. 

In his host’s absence, Ryan uses the time to fully take in his new surroundings. It’s somehow exactly what you might expect from someone of Shane’s demeanor; nothing seems to match, neither furniture nor decor, the latter of which is largely black-and-white photographs and paintings that adorn the walls. 

Ryan moves toward the mantle of the fireplace, instinctively reaching for the framed picture that sits atop. The subjects of the photo appear to be a couple; one, a young woman, with dark hair that spills down her backside. Standing next to her, with his hand wrapped around her waist, is a man.

Ryan frowns, bringing the frame closer to his face. The quality is rather grainy, he must admit, but it almost looks like —

“Those are my parents,” Shane interrupts, startling Ryan enough so that he almost drops the frame. In his hand, Shane holds a faded first aid kit, which he shakes in the slightest as he walks further into the room. “Finally found what I was looking for,” he says, “Here, take a seat.”

Ryan sets the photograph back onto the mantle. “Your mother is very beautiful,” he comments, sitting next to Shane. 

“Yeah, she was.”

Silence settles amongst them as Shane works on cleaning the wound. It stings, as he presses an alcohol wipe against the broken flesh. “It’ll probably scar,” he says, moments later, “But it doesn’t look like you need stitches. Just a nasty gash, really.”

“Thank you,” the words are softly spoken, and Ryan isn’t sure that Shane even heard them until:

“It’s nothing,” Shane waves his hand, almost as if physically brushing away the words. He stands, “I should let you sleep. I know the couch isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but-”

“It’s perfect,” Ryan assures him, which causes Shane to smile. 

“Oh,” he says suddenly, snapping his fingers together. “I almost forgot. There are blankets in the first closet on the right, if you want one. And the bathroom is just down the hall,” Shane points off in the direction behind Ryan. “And I’ll be heading into town around nine, so I can drop you off at Eddie’s on the way.”

“Sounds great,” Ryan says, though the words break off into a yawn. “I appreciate it.”

(Shane must take that as his cue to leave because he bids Ryan a _goodnight_ and retreats into his bedroom.)

As Ryan soon finds, the house of a virtual stranger is much more… unsettling in the dark. His overactive imagination works to create shadows where there are none and, even though Ryan _knows_ he is alone in the living room, he still can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched. 

His fear — the way that his unsteady breathing and rapid heartbeat work hand-in-hand to keep sleep at arm’s length despite the day that Ryan’s had, eventually grows tiresome. Before long, he finds himself at the kitchen table, scrawling his thoughts into a moleskine notebook. 

He’s always preferred handwriting to typing, a fact that he is very much thankful for given the probable demise of the typewriter in the trunk of his car. For nearly a half an hour, Ryan scratches as many details down about the woman, about _tonight_ , as he can remember; and then, in his haste, he begins to write. To _create_. It’s only a first draft of a couple pages, but there’s potential. 

Maybe _Boston_ wasn’t what he needed, after all.

When he stifles a yawn for the third time in as many minutes, Ryan returns to his makeshift bed on the couch. Shane was right — it’s not entirely comfortable, but it’s a thought that disappears as soon as it comes, and sleep pulls him in.

  


The struggle with consciousness is eventually lost several hours later, and Ryan finds himself waking up to a pitch-black room. He can’t remember where he is for several seconds, only that he’s _not_ in his Harlem apartment, before the memories come flooding back and he presses the band-aid on his forehead softly. 

“Fuck,” he yawns out, leaning back in a stretch. Though he’s only just gone to bed, Ryan figures that his bad luck streak will continue in the form of a sleepless night. Not one to waste time, he’s soon back to working on his new manuscript; the thoughts pour onto the page, almost subconsciously in nature, and Ryan is surprised when he realizes that he’s written several pages worth. 

He frowns, setting the pen next to him. He flips through the notebook, only to find that it wasn’t his writing at all:

**_HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME THEY’RE TRYING TO KILL ME HELP ME_ **

**_HELP ME THEY’RE GOING TO KILL ME HELP ME YOU’RE NEXT_** —

“Holy _shit_ ,” Ryan wakes with a start, shooting up into a sitting position. He frantically pats his chest, almost as if checking to make sure that he’s _real_ and not dreaming again. “Jesus,” he curses, still struggling to get his breathing under control. 

His notebook is right there on the coffee table, where he left it before falling asleep, and he’s almost scared to open it again – but when he does, what he finds is an embellished account of his accident. No ominous _help me_ messages or vague threats. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” a voice startles him once more, and he whips his head in the direction of the noise, only to find Shane standing in the entrance of the hallway, towel in hand. “I was just going to shower and then wake you up.”

“What time is it?” Ryan asks, sounding tired. He’s been in Hallow Hills for all of twelve hours, and it’s been the _weirdest_ twelve hours of his entire twenty-nine years. To say that he’s ready to get back on the road would be an understatement. 

“About eight,” Shane answers, eyebrows furrowing. “Everything alright there, pal?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Ryan grits out, the words sounding harsher than intended. After all that Shane has done for him since the accident, he _knows_ that he should be grateful, but he can’t shake the suspicion that something isn’t right. 

“Oh-kay,” his host turns in the direction of the bathroom. “Not a morning person, I see.”

The conversation ends there. A minute later, after Ryan hears the creak of the water pipes, he stands from the couch and makes his way into the kitchen. His heart beats harshly against his ribs as he passes the small table in the center of the room. _Just ignore it_.

After poking around in Shane’s cabinets for a couple of moments, he finds what he was searching for — coffee, that is — and starts to prepare a pot.

He’s on his second cup when Shane reemerges. 

“Sorry about earlier,” Ryan says, watching as Shane silently pours himself a cup. “I’m just a little on edge after last night.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Shane gives him an easygoing smile. “Eddie at the shop should get you all taken care of and you can get back on the road — Boston, you said you were headed?”

“Uh, yeah,” Ryan says, after a beat of silence. There was just one issue with his statement, though: 

He _didn’t_ say. Shane never asked, and Ryan would never just offer that information up. But he needs his car fixed and Shane is his only way into town, so it’s probably best not to start asking questions right about now. 

The chair legs scratch against the linoleum tile as he stands, “I just need to get changed and we can head out.”

  


Fifteen minutes later, Ryan and Shane are squeezed into the latter’s old pickup truck on their way into town. It’s a short drive, and before long, rows of buildings roll by the passenger window. 

It’s not a bad place, from what Ryan can discern; Hallow Hills certainly is smaller than what he was used to, but it was _charming_ in the sort of way that, were this Maine instead of Massachusetts, Steven King would probably write a book about it. 

“Here we are,” Shane says, pulling to a stop. 

Ryan peers through the windshield, only to find that they’re now parked in front of a mechanic’s shop — Eddie’s, he presumes. The establishment itself is relatively unassuming; a simple brick building, weathered over time.

“I have to go open up shop, otherwise I would bring you back later, once they open.”

“Shop?” Ryan questions. He’d meant to ask last night, when Shane first mentioned it, but in the mix of everything, it’d been forgotten.

“Yeah!” Shane says with a smile, “I own the bookstore downtown.”

“Bookstore?” Ryan wouldn’t have expected _that_ answer. Hallow Hills, from what he’s seen so far, is rather small — he can’t imagine there was much revenue to be found in book selling. “That’s interesting.”

“It’s only a couple blocks from here, on Main Street,” Shane explains, “Should be easy enough to find when you’re done here.”

“Thanks,” Ryan says, stepping out of the truck. He shuts the door behind him and watches as Shane drives off.

In the end, it takes close to an hour and a half for someone to show up — a man of above average build, tall and muscular in a way that someone who deals with heavy machinery is expected to be. 

“Eddie?” Ryan calls, standing from his spot on the concrete. 

The man turns; he’s gruff in appearance, his overalls are smeared with grease and, honestly, he looks like he could snap Ryan like a twig. 

“Do I know you?” He asks, pulling a ring of keys out of his front pocket. 

“Uh, no, no,” Ryan shakes his head, “Sorry, I just - Shane recommended that I talk to you-”

“Who?” Eddie interrupts, pushing open the front door to his shop.

“Shane. The owner of the bookstore?” Ryan tries, though he’s met with an equally blank look, “No? Okay, uh, well I got into an accident last night and he said that you could fix my car.”

“Your friend’s right,” the mechanic holds open the door for Ryan, “Come on in.”

After a short conversation, Eddie agrees to tow Ryan’s car back to the shop and fix it up — it’ll undoubtedly take the rest of his savings, but at least he can get the fuck out of this town _and_ out of Massachusetts. Finished manuscript or not, he’s ready to leave. 

  


In the end, Ryan starts on his way to the bookstore a little before noon. It’s a nice day for a walk, honestly; the weather is warm but not _hot_ and he’s glad for the opportunity to be alone for a while.

And, really, he could really use the time to clear his mind. Nothing about this town feels right, though Ryan is having trouble discerning if it’s a result of the accident or something else. 

He ventures down the street Shane dropped him off on, until he comes to an intersection at the corner of Locust and Main Street. Ryan frowns, trying to remember if Shane had told him to take a left or right here to get to the bookstore; after some consideration, he heads to the right. 

As he walks, he can’t help but notice how _empty_ the town’s streets are. He tries to think back to this morning, tries to remember seeing anybody else besides Eddie or Shane. It’s hopeless, he knows; there’s been no other customers, no other cars. Even now, as he moves into the heart of the downtown area, there are hardly any signs of life: no children outside playing, no _noise_ , nothing.

Lost in his thoughts, Ryan doesn’t take notice of his surroundings again until he comes to another cross-section in the road. He heads left, this time, if only to avoid circling back to Eddie’s; which makes his confusion that much greater when he turns the corner and finds the shop looming in the distance.

“Is that-” He mumbles to himself and shakes his head. A rush of fear floods him, one that he’s seemingly gotten used to in the past twenty-four hours. 

_The lack of sleep must be getting to me_ , Ryan tells himself. It’s the only explanation. 

Nevertheless, when he reaches Main Street again; he turns right. When he sees a sign, one advertising _used books for sale_ a few buildings down, Ryan is unsure if he feels _glad_ or just **nervous**.

“Hey,” he says, plastering a wide smile onto his face as he pushes open the door. 

He’s hit with a rush of cold air, one that makes him wrap his jacket tighter around himself. Ryan finds that the inside of the bookstore is surprisingly nice, considering the state of the outside. It’s got a distinctly old feel to it, lined with shelves of hardbacks; it’s a place that a writer like Ryan feels at home in. 

“Oh, hey, Ryan,” Shane greets him. He’s got a box labeled _donations_ in his hand, though he’s far enough away that Ryan can’t make out any of the titles. “Eddie say anything about your car?”

For perhaps the first time since he’s gotten to Hallow Hills, Ryan feels normal. It’s like he stepped into another world where everything makes sense again. “Yeah,” he nods, making his way through the front display. “He’s going to pick it up after lunch. Expects it’ll take a couple days,” he continues, picking up one of the discounted books. It’s from 1974 – a little outdated, but still in great condition, so he carries it over to the register. 

Shane follows suit, “Well, the couch is yours for the meantime, if you want it.” 

“Yeah, thanks,” Ryan smiles and pulls out his wallet. Maybe he judged Shane too quickly, he thinks, the circumstances of their introduction probably didn’t help any. “So, what’s the story with this place?” He asks afterwards, leaning against the counter.

“You mean the store?” Shane asks, body language mimicking Ryan’s in that he props an elbow against the glass counter and leans over, “Well, I bought it in-”

“No, the town,” Ryan interrupts, with a laugh. He can tell that the question confuses Shane by the way his eyebrows furrow, so he continues: “It just seems kind of… I don’t know. Empty, I guess?”

“Oh.” Shane adverts his gaze as he stands, which makes Ryan all that more curious. Then, Shane grabs the half-full box and walks out from behind the register. “I guess I don’t know what you mean, really,” he says, beginning to pack more books, “There’s no story.” 

At that, Ryan frowns. _Every_ town has a story – even if it’s not necessarily a bad one. There’s something in Shane’s reaction that heightens Ryan’s natural curiosity and he supposes that having a few extra days to pry out information is a blessing in disguise. Maybe he can even use whatever he finds in his manuscript, that way he can tack **_BASED ON A TRUE STORY_** onto the cover. 

“Alright,” he shrugs, finally, deciding not to press the situation further. After a few minutes, he decides to make his way back toward the front of the store, toward the stack of newspapers by the door. Might as well do _something_ to pass the time — right?

Ryan pulls the top one from the pile. He doesn’t get much farther than unfolding the pages, though, much less the opportunity to actually read through them, because his attention is caught by the leading headline:

**BODY OF LOCAL WOMAN FOUND**.

The article details the case of a missing twenty-year-old, whose decomposing body was found only two days prior. It’s not the story that stops Ryan in his tracks, though, it’s the black-and-white photograph below. 

He’s _seen_ her before; he knows he has. 

Because she’s the woman that he almost hit last night.


End file.
